Ariel’s room still smelled faintly of sea-salt.
It didn’t matter that the palace laundry had washed her sheets a hundred times, or that the windows were shut tight against the evening breeze. Somewhere in the folds of fabric and memory, the ocean clung like a favorite song you couldn’t stop humming.
Ariel lay on her stomach across the bed, feet kicked up behind her, toes wiggling like they were trying to remember how to be fins. Her red hair spilled over the pillow in a bright wave, and her hands propped up her chin as she stared at the ceiling—at a spot where the candlelight made little ripples on the plaster.
“One year,” she whispered, and smiled.
The smile stayed… but it softened at the edges.
One year since she’d walked down the grand steps of the palace with Eric waiting at the bottom, looking at her like he’d discovered treasure again. One year since she’d said vows with a voice that still felt miraculous in her throat. One year since she’d traded crashing surf for marble halls, reef songs for ballroom music, and the wild, weightless whoosh of swimming for—well…
Ariel flexed her ankles. They did a very good job of walking. They did not, however, do a very good job of dancing on air the way fins did in water.
“And I miss you,” she admitted to the ceiling.
Not Eric. Never Eric.
She missed… the ocean itself. The way it hugged everything. The way it carried sound. The way it made even silence feel alive.
She missed her father—King Triton—who had an opinion about absolutely everything and loved her so fiercely it could shake storms. She missed her sisters, who could argue in harmony and still end up braiding each other’s hair five minutes later. She missed the kingdom’s bright chaos: the schools of fish that darted like confetti, the gentle sway of kelp forests, the glimmering secrets tucked under rocks.
She even missed the little annoyances.
Like Sebastian scolding her for “forgetting proper posture” when she was, in fact, a mermaid and posture was largely optional.
Ariel’s stomach rumbled.
She sighed dramatically, as though she were a heroine in one of the romance novels she’d discovered in Eric’s library.
“If I could just… talk to them,” she said aloud. “Just a little. On the surface.”
She sat up and hugged a pillow to her chest, thinking it through like it was a royal problem that required a royal solution.
She couldn’t go deep now—not without risk, not without help that she didn’t even know existed anymore. But the surface? The surface was still hers in a way. The place where two worlds kissed.
And Eric had a ship.
A very nice ship.
A ship that came with sails and ropes and a captain who looked very handsome when he pretended he wasn’t showing off.
Ariel’s eyes sparkled.
“Maybe,” she said, “Eric could take me out tomorrow. Just far enough. Just long enough.” She imagined it: the ship drifting in the early morning calm, the water turning silver and blue, and then—splash!—familiar faces popping up, laughing and teasing her, and—
A knock came at the door.
Ariel jolted like she’d been caught stealing forks again.
“Come in!” she called, too quickly.
The door opened, and Eric stepped in with the careful quiet of someone trying to be romantic and not trip over anything important.
He was holding a tray.
Ariel’s gaze locked on it immediately.
“Is that… food?” she asked, reverent.
“It’s your food,” Eric said, smiling in that way that made her heart do a small, foolish leap. “I heard you sigh like someone who’s carrying the sorrow of an entire kingdom. That usually means you’re hungry.”
“I might be,” Ariel admitted, trying to look dignified and failing completely. “I also might be carrying the sorrow of an entire kingdom.”
Eric set the tray on the little table by the bed: warm bread, sliced fruit, and a cup of tea that smelled like honey. There was also a small seashell dish he’d clearly stolen from her “collection corner” to hold a few sugared almonds.
Ariel pointed. “Those are mine.”
“I know,” Eric said. “That’s why I borrowed them.”
“That’s not how borrowing works.”
Eric leaned closer and lowered his voice as if sharing a palace secret. “I’m your husband. I have special borrowing privileges.”
Ariel huffed a laugh, then immediately took a piece of bread and chewed like someone who had never in her life been told not to speak with her mouth full.
Eric sat beside her on the bed and watched her with gentle amusement.
“Ariel,” he said softly, “what’s on your mind?”
She froze mid-chew.
How did he do that? How did he always hear the part of her that was too quiet for everyone else?
Ariel swallowed and set the bread down. Her fingers curled in the pillow again, squeezing it like it could anchor her feelings in place.
“I’m happy,” she said quickly, because that was true. “So happy. Truly. But I… I miss them.”
Eric didn’t ask who. He didn’t make her explain what the ocean felt like. He didn’t act surprised that someone could love a new life and still ache for an old one.
He just nodded, like he’d been waiting for this moment with patience instead of fear.
“Your father,” he said. “Your sisters.”
“And the sea,” Ariel admitted, the words tumbling out. “The whole ocean. I miss it so much sometimes it feels like my ribs are too small to hold it.”
Eric’s hand found hers, warm and steady.
“I thought you might,” he said.
Ariel blinked. “You did?”
Eric’s smile turned slightly guilty. “You’ve been staring out the window a lot lately. And humming. You don’t even realize you’re doing it.”
Ariel’s cheeks warmed. “I hum?”
“Yes,” Eric said. “It’s not a bad thing. It’s just… very ocean-y. Like your heart is sending postcards to the waves.”
Ariel laughed, then wiped at one eye because the laugh was balancing on the edge of tears.
“I was thinking,” she said, voice small, “maybe you could take me out on the ship. Not far. Just to the surface waters. So I could… see them. Talk to them. Even if I can’t—” she gestured vaguely downward, toward the deep that she couldn’t reach anymore—“go home like before.”
Eric squeezed her hand.
“I was hoping you’d ask,” he said.
Ariel stared at him.
Eric reached into his pocket and pulled out something wrapped in cloth. He unfolded it carefully, revealing a small carved piece of wood shaped like a spiral shell. On one side was etched a tiny crown. On the other, an “A” that looked suspiciously like it had been carved by someone who had learned woodworking out of desperation and love.
Ariel’s mouth fell open.
“What is that?” she whispered.
“A signal,” Eric said. “For the crew. For me. For the sea.”
He took her hand and pressed the little token into her palm. “I’ve been planning a surprise for our anniversary. I didn’t know the best way to do it without… making you homesick by accident. But I thought maybe the right kind of homesick is just… love with a direction.”
Ariel made a sound that was half laugh, half sob.
Eric cleared his throat and tried to look casual, which was impossible when his ears were turning pink. “Also, I asked Sebastian for help.”
Ariel went very still.
“You—what?”
Eric held up both hands. “Before you panic, he only scolded me for forty-five minutes. That’s actually an improvement. He said I have ‘the posture of a half-cooked shrimp,’ whatever that means.”
Ariel giggled despite herself. “It means he likes you.”
“He also said,” Eric continued, “that if we come to the right place on calm water at sunrise… your family might be willing to meet us near the surface. Just for a little while. No danger. No—” he glanced at her thoughtfully—“big dramatic spell disasters.”
Ariel stared at him as if he’d just hung the moon from the ceiling.
“You did all that… for me?”
Eric leaned in and kissed her forehead. “For us,” he said. “I married the ocean’s daughter. I didn’t expect the ocean to stop being part of you.”
Ariel clutched the wooden shell to her chest and let herself cry—just a little—because it was the good kind of crying, the kind that felt like rain on thirsty ground.
Then she sniffed and pulled back, eyes bright.
“Sunrise?” she repeated.
Eric nodded. “Sunrise.”
Ariel’s smile returned, full and gleaming this time. “We’ll need blankets.”
“We’ll bring blankets.”
“And snacks,” Ariel added, very serious. “If my sisters show up, there will be teasing, and teasing requires snacks. It’s a law.”
Eric’s mouth twitched. “Noted.”
“And—” Ariel paused, eyes narrowing mischievously—“if Sebastian scolds you again, I will personally tell him that you have excellent posture.”
Eric groaned. “Ariel, please don’t lie to the crab. He scares me.”
“He’s not a crab,” Ariel said automatically, then grinned wider. “But yes. He scares everyone. That’s part of his charm.”
Eric laughed, and the sound filled the room like warmth.
Ariel looked down at her legs—at her feet, still kicked up behind her like they were daydreaming too. She wiggled her toes, and for once it didn’t feel like a loss. It felt like a choice. A bridge. A new way of moving through the world.
The ocean would still be there tomorrow.
And tomorrow, she’d be there too—on the surface, where sky and sea met, with her husband at her side and her family just beneath the glittering edge of waves.
Ariel leaned in and bumped her shoulder against Eric’s.
“One year,” she said, voice soft, “and you’re still the best surprise I ever found.”
Eric kissed her cheek. “Careful,” he murmured. “If you keep saying things like that, I’m going to start thinking you like me.”
Ariel gasped, offended. “Like you? Eric, I married you.”
Eric pretended to ponder. “True. But you also married forks.”
“That was a brief and passionate phase,” Ariel said, and they both burst out laughing.
Outside the window, the night wind shifted, bringing in the faintest trace of the sea.
Ariel breathed it in and held the wooden shell tight, her heart already sailing toward morning.
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